No one loved classic cinema more than Ava Reyes and it was this fascination with the golden age of film that led her to the old theater district, a forgotten corner of the city where the echoes of applause and glamour still lingered in the air for those who cared to listen. Besides being a cinephile, Ava was a talented young documentarian with a keen eye for stories lost in time, which was what drew her to this place. She was seeking the hidden tales nestled within its decaying walls.

It was on a crisp autumn evening, under the faded marquee of the once-renowned Majestic Theater, that Ava first saw Esther. The elderly woman sat alone on a plastic milk crate, her eyes reflecting the glow of the streetlights, her posture exuding a bygone elegance. She was wrapped in a coat that harked back to the 1940s, a silent testament to a life steeped in a history that Ava yearned to uncover.

Ava approached Esther with a mix of reverence and curiosity. The initial exchange of words, tentative and respectful, soon unfolded into a rich tapestry of conversation. Esther, with a voice that hinted at a past filled with both triumph and sorrow, shared glimpses of her life – a life that once shone brightly under the spotlight of early Hollywood.

As their conversation delved deeper, Ava realized that in Esther, she had found not just a link to the cinematic era she so admired but a living embodiment of the history she had only seen through the silver screen. Esther was once a luminary of the silver screen, a star in the era when films found their voice. It was a revelation that transformed her curiosity into a profound connection, marking the start of an unexpected journey into the heart of Esther’s life and the hidden corners of the city.

Ava found herself enveloped in the surreal world of Esther’s tales of old Hollywood which were sprinkled with hints of magical realism – stories where reality seemed embellished by the fantastic, where the glamour of the silver screen bled into the grit of the real world.

In Ava’s own psyche, Esther’s story stirred dormant echoes. Her journey with Esther became a mirror, reflecting her own search for meaning, revealing layers of her character that were previously hidden even to herself.

The narrative structure took on a non-linear form, intertwining Esther’s glittering past with Ava’s present. Flashbacks of Hollywood’s golden days, with Esther’s sparkling eyes capturing the hearts of an audience now long gone, contrasted starkly with the bleakness of her current existence.

The city around them, a character in its own right, pulsed with stories untold. Each alleyway and forgotten nook held whispers of lives once vibrant, now muted by the relentless march of time. The other homeless individuals Ava and Esther encountered were no longer mere faces; they were a constellation of stories, each adding depth to the narrative.

Their conversations, filled with wit and underlying profundities, reflected the complexities of their circumstances. These dialogues were the threads that wove the tapestry of their community, revealing the diverse tapestry of human experience.

As the grip of winter tightened, Esther reminisced about the lost world of old Hollywood glamour. Ava had no idea what made her offer to do Esther’s makeup, but when the suggestion was made, the actress’ eyes lit up and she expressed a wish to relive just for a moment, the magic of her days in the spotlight. Inspired by this wish, Ava embarked on a mission to turn Esther’s longing into reality.

Ava scoured vintage shops and contacted old movie studios, searching for the makeup brands that Esther had once used. It was a quest that led her through the forgotten archives of cinema, unearthing relics of a bygone era. Finally, with the treasures of vintage makeup in hand, Ava returned to Esther, ready to bridge the years that had separated Esther from her past.

But life had a way of never going to plan.

If this were a movie, Ava would have applied the makeup and brought back echoes of Esther’s starlit past, transforming back into a starlet and rejuvenating her spirit. They would have looked in the reflection of the mirror and saw not just the familiar face of Esther’s youth but a poignant reconnection with a life that, for one special evening, stepped out of the shadows of memory and into the present.

But life rarely, bordering on never, operated by cinema rules, and Esther’s departure from the world was quiet, unceremonious, a gentle fade-out rather than a dramatic conclusion.

In the days that followed, Ava found herself reflecting on how Esther’s story, much like the classic films she adored, had left an indelible mark on her. She realized that each frame of Esther’s life, from her rise to stardom to her final days on the streets, was a narrative rich with unspoken dialogues, untold stories, and the raw authenticity that no screenplay could capture.

Motivated by this revelation, Ava turned her focus to the real, unglamorized stories of the city. She channeled her love for cinema into her advocacy, using her camera not just to capture images, but to tell the stories of those who, like Esther, had lived extraordinary lives away from the spotlight.

Ava’s work became a tribute not just to Esther, but to all the unsung heroes and forgotten legends of the city. She sought to bridge the gap between the cinematic world she loved and the real world she lived in, showing that every life has a story as compelling as any film.

In the end, “Days of Estheryear” evolved from a mere narrative to a vivid, living documentary of lives and experiences. Ava ensured that the legacy of Esther, and others like her, continued in a way that was true to their reality – not as polished, scripted tales, but as raw, unfiltered testaments to the resilience and richness of the human spirit.

Part 1 HERE * Part 2 HERE * Part 3 HERE * Part 4 HERE

Under the harsh light of the morning sun, the desert seemed a different world, its secrets cloaked in the normalcy of daylight. But for Meredith and Kayla, the reality of what lay hidden in its depths was all too clear.

They drove in silence, each lost in their thoughts, the weight of John’s revelations hanging heavy between them. The familiar landmarks of Dante’s Entrance soon came into view, the odd structures now seen through a lens of fear and understanding.

Mrs. Haverhill greeted them with the same eerie smile, but her eyes narrowed as she studied their faces. “Back so soon? Did you forget something here?”

“We know about the land, about what this place really is,” Kayla said, her voice steady despite the fear churning in her stomach.

The old lady’s demeanor changed, the facade of welcoming charm falling away to reveal a calculating coldness. “Then you understand the power of this place. You’ve felt it yourself, haven’t you? The pull of the unknown, the whispers of the stars.”

Meredith stepped forward, her usual bravado replaced by a quiet intensity. “We want what you took from us. The part of us that stayed here.”

Mrs. Haverhill laughed, a sound that sent shivers down their spines. “It’s not that simple, my dears. What’s given can’t be taken back so easily. The Entrance demands a trade.”

The realization hit them like a physical blow. They had to offer something in return, something equal to what they had lost. But what could be worth the fragments of their souls they had unwittingly surrendered?

As if reading their thoughts, Mrs. Haverhill gestured towards the pyramid. “Make your wish, as the ritual demands. Offer something of equal value, and maybe, just maybe, the Entrance will return what it took.”

With a heavy heart, Kayla followed Meredith toward the pyramid. The structure loomed over them, its ancient stones whispering secrets of forgotten times. Inside, the air was thick, charged with an energy that made their skin tingle.

Standing in the heart of the pyramid, they faced each other, the weight of their decision pressing down on them. What could they possibly offer?

Kayla thought of her life, of the students she had taught, of the small, everyday joys that filled her days. And Meredith thought of her travels, of the stories she had told, of the endless road that had always called to her.

With a deep breath, they made their wishes, offering up their memories, their dreams, the very essence of who they were.

A silence fell over the pyramid, the air vibrating with the power of their sacrifice. Then, a rush of wind, a feeling of release, as if something long-held had been let go.

They emerged from the pyramid, their steps lighter, a sense of wholeness returning to them. But the cost of their return was written in their eyes, a depth of sorrow and understanding that hadn’t been there before.

Mrs. Haverhill watched them leave, her smile now tinged with something like respect. “You’ve paid the price,” she said softly. “But remember, the Entrance always leaves its mark.”

As they drove away from Dante’s Entrance, the desert landscape seemed to whisper farewell, the secrets of the land receding into the distance. They had reclaimed what was theirs, but the experience had changed them, leaving a mark that would forever color their view of the world.

In the days that followed, Meredith wrote of their experience, her words a cautionary tale of curiosity and the price of delving into mysteries better left unsolved. And Kayla, back in her classroom, looked at her students with new eyes, knowing that some lessons were learned not in books, but in the heart of the desert, under the watchful gaze of the stars.

The End (or so they think)

Part 1 HERE * Part 2 HERE * Part 3 HERE

The next day was a blur of restless energy. Meredith, usually so vibrant and full of life, seemed distracted, her usually keen eye for detail dulled. Kayla, though exhausted from her sleepless night, was driven by a need to understand, to uncover the truth behind Dante’s Entrance.

Their investigation took them to the local library, a small, dusty building that seemed to hold the weight of unspoken stories. The librarian, an elderly man with a knowing look in his eyes, watched them with a mix of curiosity and caution as they poured over old maps and faded newspaper clippings.

“What are you girls looking for?” he asked, his voice tinged with an accent that hinted at stories of its own.

“Dante’s Entrance,” Kayla replied, not looking up from a map of the area dating back to the early 1900s.

The librarian’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in closer. “That place… it’s older than it seems. Built on land that’s seen more than its fair share of sorrow and strangeness. Be careful digging into its past. Some things are better left undisturbed.”

Their search revealed little more than cryptic references to the land’s history, tales of missing persons, and strange lights seen in the desert at night. Frustrated, they left the library as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the desert town.

That evening, as they sat in their motel room, a knock came at the door. Standing outside was a man, his face weathered by the sun and wind, his eyes holding a depth of knowledge that seemed out of place in his simple appearance.

“I heard you’ve been asking about Dante’s Entrance,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I can tell you about it, but you might not like what you hear.”

He introduced himself as John, a former member of the community at Dante’s Entrance. Over cups of bitter motel coffee, he told them of the site’s true nature—a place of power, a gateway to something otherworldly and ancient. The rituals, the structures, they were all part of a larger design, one that fed on the energy of its visitors.

“The old lady, Mrs. Haverhill, she’s just a puppet,” John explained. “The real power is in the land itself, in the stairs that lead to nowhere good and the pyramid that sees into your soul. They take a piece of you, a fragment of your essence, and in return, they give you… visions, insights into things no human should know.”

Meredith listened, her face pale, her usual skepticism replaced by a dawning horror. Kayla felt that familiar chill run down her spine, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place, forming a picture far more terrifying than they could have imagined.

That night, Kayla’s dreams were more vivid than ever. She saw the staircase, each step leading her closer to a fire-filled room that pulsed with a dark, hungry energy. She heard whispers, voices speaking in languages long forgotten, calling her to join them in the void.

She woke with a start, her heart racing, the feeling of being watched more intense than ever. Outside, the desert wind howled, a mournful cry that seemed to echo the despair and longing of lost souls.

As dawn broke, Kayla knew they couldn’t leave this mystery unsolved. They had to return to Dante’s Entrance, to face the truth of what lay within its shadows and, if possible, to reclaim the pieces of themselves they had unknowingly left behind.

Not. The. End.

Part 1 HERE * Part 2 HERE

The road back seemed longer, the desert more foreboding. Kayla’s thoughts churned with unease, the afterimages of Dante’s Entrance lingering like shadows at the edge of her vision. Meredith, on the other hand, was animated, her energy seemingly boundless as she recounted each detail, already drafting her next blog post in her mind.

As night fell, the desert transformed. The stars emerged, casting a cold, indifferent light over the landscape. Meredith’s chatter faded as she too began to sense the change, the eerie quiet of the desert night seeping into the car.

Back at their motel, Kayla’s unease blossomed into insomnia. She tossed and turned, her dreams filled with staircases leading down into the abyss and pyramids casting long, dark shadows. She woke to the sound of her own heart racing, the room feeling smaller, more oppressive.

Meredith, surprisingly, was quiet the next morning. The usual sparkle in her eye had dimmed, replaced by a distant, thoughtful gaze. “Did you feel it, Kay?” she asked, her voice low. “Like we left something behind?”

Kayla nodded, her throat tight. The words she had been afraid to voice now hung in the air between them, a shared acknowledgment of their unsettling experience.

Determined to shake off the feeling, they decided to research Dante’s Entrance. Their search led them down a rabbit hole of local legends and obscure references to energy vortices and paranormal activities in the desert. The most chilling discovery, however, was an old news article about the original owner of the land, a reclusive figure with rumored ties to occult practices.

The pieces began to fit together, forming a picture that was as fascinating as it was horrifying. The site, it seemed, was more than just a tourist attraction; it was a focal point for something ancient and arcane, a place where the boundaries between worlds were thin.

That night, as they sat in a local diner, the air felt heavy with unspoken fears. The waitress, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, noticed their subdued demeanor. “You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she joked, refilling their coffee.

Meredith forced a smile. “Just a weird place we visited. Dante’s Entrance, ever heard of it?”

The waitress’s smile faltered, her hand trembling slightly as she set down the coffee pot. “That place… it’s best left alone. Bad things happen to those who meddle with forces they don’t understand.”

Her words, meant as a warning, only fueled their curiosity and fear. As they drove back to the motel, the desert seemed alive with whispers, the wind carrying echoes of secrets long buried in the sand.

In her room, Kayla lay awake, the darkness feeling alive, pulsating with a rhythm that matched her racing heart. The line between dream and reality blurred as she heard the distant sound of a staircase creaking, as if someone, or something, was climbing down into Hell, step by ominous step.

Not. The. End.

Part 1 HERE

The old lady introduced herself as Mrs. Haverhill as she led them past the church, its doors firmly shut, its stained-glass windows depicting scenes not of saints, but of landscapes twisted and strange, as if viewed through a warped lens. Meredith took photos on her phone, her excitement undiminished by the church’s unnerving art.

They approached a wrought iron railing that surrounded a man-made opening in the ground. The far end of the railing became a handrail for the stone steps that spiraled along the walls of what could only be described as a pit. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate,” Mrs. Haverhill said, then quickly translated, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Her voice was laced with a reverence that seemed out of place in the modern world. “Some say Dante passed through gates to get to Hell, but we know different. On certain nights, you can hear the anguished screams of the Uncommitted emanating from that hole.”

Meredith laughed, her disbelief clear, yet Kayla couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease. The staircase leading into a pit out in the middle of the desert seemed like breadcrumbs to lure in the unsuspecting and the foolish.

The tour continued to the pyramid, its surface rough and weathered. “Here,” Mrs. Haverhill said, “visitors make a wish. It’s an old tradition, one that keeps the balance.”

Meredith, ever the skeptic, rolled her eyes. “Sounds like tourist trap stuff to me.”

Mrs. Haverhill’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes hardened for a fleeting moment. “It’s more than a simple wish. It’s an exchange, a giving of oneself to receive.”

Kayla felt a shiver run through her. The notion of ‘giving oneself’ seemed ominous, and she instinctively stepped back. “I think we’ll pass on that.”

The refusal seemed to shift something in the air, the previously warm breeze turning cold. Mrs. Haverhill’s demeanor changed subtly, her welcoming nature dimming like a cloud passing over the sun.

As they moved away from the pyramid, Kayla couldn’t help but glance back. The structure seemed to loom larger than before, its shadows darker, more menacing.

They explored the remaining buildings, each more bizarre than the last. One was filled with mirrors that distorted their reflections in unsettling ways. Another housed an array of clocks, all ticking out of sync, their dissonant chimes creating a cacophony that set Kayla’s teeth on edge.

Throughout the tour, the sense of being watched grew stronger. Kayla noticed figures peering from behind curtains, their gazes curious yet unnerving. Meredith, engrossed in documenting every oddity, seemed oblivious to the increasing discomfort of their surroundings.

As they neared the end of the tour, Kayla’s unease had blossomed into a silent panic. The place no longer felt like a quirky tourist attraction but a trap, a web they had unwittingly walked into.

Mrs. Haverhill’s parting words did nothing to alleviate their growing fear. “The Entrance always takes something from those who visit. A small price for witnessing its wonders.”

Back in the safety of their car, Meredith was buzzing with excitement. “This is going to be great for the blog! Can you imagine the hits I’ll get?”

Kayla, however, was silent, her mind replaying Mrs. Haverhill’s words. A small price… What had they given, unwittingly, in their visit to this strange, impossible place?

As they drove away, leaving the enigmatic Dante’s Entrance behind, the feeling of having lost something intangible lingered, a haunting melody that would follow them long after their desert adventure had ended.

Not. The. End.

The Arizona sun beat down mercilessly on the barren desert. An ocean of sand and scrub, it stretched endlessly, and amid this desolation, the highway snaked its way, a ribbon of civilization in an otherwise untouched land.

Meredith’s trusty dusty 1967 Chevy Impala—a car bequeathed to her by her late father that despite the constant repairs, she just couldn’t bear to part with—hummed along this lonely road, its air conditioner fighting a losing battle against the scorching heat. Inside, Meredith, with her sun-kissed hair tied back and eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses, drove with the confidence of a person who had traversed many such forgotten paths. Kayla rode shotgun, her gaze lost in the monotonous landscape and her mind adrift in thoughts far removed from their spontaneous adventure.

“Isn’t it eerie, Kay?” Meredith’s voice broke the silence, a note of excitement betraying her love for the unknown. “All this emptiness, it’s like we’re driving through another world.”

Kayla, more reserved, more anchored to the reality of her classroom and chalkboards, nodded. “It’s definitely… different. Makes you wonder what secrets are buried out here.”

Their conversation was cut short as Meredith slowed the car, her eyes caught by a sight so out of place it seemed a mirage. There stood a small church with stained glass windows reflecting the sun’s rays, a pyramid that seemed like a misplaced relic of ancient Egypt, and a scattering of other small buildings.

“What in the world…” Kayla murmured, her reserve giving way to curiosity.

Meredith’s eyes sparkled with the promise of discovery. “Dante’s Entrance,” she read aloud the sign that seemed too new, too polished for such a forgotten place. “This’ll be perfect for my blog, Kay!”

Despite her initial hesitation, Kayla found herself drawn in by her friend’s enthusiasm and the sheer oddity of the sight. “A creepy church in the middle of the desert… This has to have a story.”

They parked the car and stepped out, the heat hitting them like a physical force. The place, though seemingly abandoned, exuded an aura of waiting, as if the desert itself held its breath for what was to come.

As they approached the entrance, a figure emerged from the shadow of the church, an old lady dressed in clothes too heavy for the desert heat. Her smile was welcoming, but her eyes held a glint of something unreadable.

“Welcome to Dante’s Entrance,” she said. “The tour is twenty dollars each. I assure you, it’s an experience you won’t forget.”

Meredith’s excitement was palpable as she paid the fee, but Kayla felt a chill run down her spine, a premonition of a story yet to unfold.

Not. The. End.

Original Story HERE

This is a follow-up on a post done a while ago, more of a backstory for the Mister Jenkins character in the story found in the above link.

Decades ago, in the small town of Wraithmoor, Thomas Jenkins lived a humble and content life. He had always been fascinated by the intricate dance between light and shadows, and he possessed an uncanny ability to manipulate them. In his early years, he traveled the world, performing as an illusionist, using his talents to amaze audiences with dazzling displays of light and darkness. But eventually, he grew weary of the limelight and returned to Wraithmoor to live a quiet life.

Thomas found solace working as a lollipop man, guiding the town’s children safely across the busy streets near Oakwood Primary School. He had become an indispensable part of the community, a kindhearted and trustworthy figure who brought joy and laughter to everyone he encountered. The children adored him, and he cherished the role he played in their lives.

Unbeknownst to Thomas, his unique abilities were coveted by a secret society of occultists, The Order of the Umbra. The group believed that they could harness Thomas’s powers to unlock the hidden secrets of the universe, which would grant them unimaginable wealth and influence. When they approached Thomas with the proposition to join their ranks, he refused, disgusted by their twisted aspirations and fearing the potential harm his powers could cause in the wrong hands.

Enraged by his rejection, The Order of the Umbra devised a devious plan to ensure they could benefit from his abilities without his cooperation. They forged an enchanted artifact, a lollipop sign imbued with a potent curse, and planted it within Thomas’s belongings. Unaware of the item’s malicious properties, he unwittingly used it during his duties.

In time, the curse began to warp Thomas’s soul, corrupting his once-noble spirit and transforming him into a sinister vessel for the Order’s dark ambitions. The shadows that once danced and played at his command now whispered vile secrets and enticed him with the promise of unlimited power. Thomas struggled against the curse, but his resistance only fueled the transformation.

It was during this tumultuous period that tragedy struck. A terrible accident took place at the school crossing, claiming the lives of several children, and Thomas, being the unfortunate witness, was left heartbroken. Wracked with guilt, he became reclusive, seeking solace in the only place that brought him comfort – the playground. One fateful evening, Thomas succumbed to the curse entirely, and the shadows swallowed him whole, leaving behind an empty shell of the man he once was.

Now, as a vengeful spirit, Thomas Jenkins – once the kindly lollipop man – haunts the playground, his soul corrupted by the artifact’s curse, his powers twisted to serve the dark machinations of The Order of the Umbra. He exists in a constant state of torment, a prisoner of the shadows that have become his curse and his identity.

Courtney Brady lay unconscious in the fetal position on the last bed on Earth, her naked body caught up in the tangle of a sweat-soaked linen sheet. Her eyes moved beneath their lids and her breathing came in short pants. She was in REM sleep and had been for the past one hundred and sixty-eight hours straight.

Her husband, Jacob, entered the makeshift bedroom, carrying a tray with a bowl of hot broth and a glass of cool water. He set the tray down on a nearby table, sat on the bed beside his wife, and gently tried to shake her awake. Although her eyes stopped moving and her breathing slowed, Courtney remained asleep.

“Come on, Court, you have to wake up and eat,” he said in a soft yet firm voice.

Jacob’s silhouette cut a forlorn figure against the dim glow of the bedside lamp, his shadow dancing eerily on the peeling wallpaper. The room, a relic of a world now lost, was a shrine to normalcy in a landscape torn asunder. He watched Courtney, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that belied the chaos outside their sanctuary. The room smelled faintly of antiseptics and despair, a stark contrast to the rich aroma of the broth he had prepared with dwindling supplies.

Outside, the remnants of humanity scurried like ghosts among the ruins, a testament to the resilience and fragility of life. The world had become a wasteland, its once vibrant pulse now a feeble echo in the vast emptiness. Yet here, in this small, decaying room, life clung stubbornly, embodied by the woman on the bed.

Courtney’s face, even in slumber, was etched with the toll of their reality. Lines of worry, like tiny tributaries, traced her forehead, and her lips, once quick to smile, now seemed locked in a perpetual frown. Jacob’s heart ached as he gazed upon her, remembering brighter days now overshadowed by the relentless march of despair.

He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. His touch, though gentle, was laden with urgency. “Court,” he whispered, his voice barely rising above the sound of the world crumbling outside their fragile haven. “Please, you need to eat. You need to stay with me. I can’t do this without you, baby.”

But she lay motionless, her spirit wandering in realms he could not follow. Jacob’s mind raced with the implications of her prolonged slumber. In a world where every resource was precious, every moment a gift, Courtney’s condition was a luxury they could ill afford.

The broth’s steam rose in lazy swirls, a silent siren call to the living. Jacob’s own stomach gnawed at him, a constant reminder of their dire situation. But he pushed aside his hunger, his focus solely on the woman before him.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. “Courtney, it’s Jacob. I’m here. Please, come back to me.” His voice cracked, a mixture of fear and determination.

The bandage on Courtney’s arm stood out in the dim light, a stark reminder of the peril they faced. Jacob’s hands, once used for gentle caresses, had become instruments of survival, meticulously cleaning and dressing the wound where something — something unspeakable — had bitten her. He had scoured every inch of her skin, removing any trace of the vile infection, his actions driven by a desperate hope.

As he watched her, Jacob’s mind replayed the moment of the attack, the terror in Courtney’s eyes mirroring his own. The world outside was no longer just a barren wasteland; it was a hunting ground for horrors that defied understanding. But in this room, in this moment, he fought back the only way he knew how — by keeping Courtney from slipping into that dark transformation.

The air was heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. Jacob knew the signs to watch for, the subtle changes that would signal a loss too great to comprehend. But as he held her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin, he allowed himself to believe, just for a moment, that they could defy the odds.

His vigil by her side was more than a duty; it was a silent vow to protect the last vestige of their shared humanity. In a world that had forgotten kindness, Jacob’s care for Courtney was a quiet rebellion against the encroaching darkness.

With each passing hour, Jacob found himself embracing a terrifying possibility. If Courtney were to turn, to become one of the horrors they feared, he had resolved to offer himself willingly. In his heart, the idea of being the sustenance that kept her alive, in whatever form she might take, was a final act of love, a testament to their bond that transcended the nightmare their world had become.

Gently, he slid beside her on the bed, their bodies close in the chilling air. This bed, the last bastion of their shared past, now held not just memories but a solemn pact made in the face of an unthinkable future. As he lay there, his arm protectively around her, Jacob closed his eyes, his mind adrift in a sea of what-ifs and maybes.

In the silence of the room, with the shadow of fate looming over them, they lay together on the last bed on Earth, united in their final stand against a world gone mad.